


Of Dust and Dragons

by Lone_TheTraveler



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dragon!Hanzo, M/M, McCree's a sand spirit, More tags will be added as they apply, Slow Burn, Spirit AU, maybe I'll learn how to tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2019-10-24 22:25:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17712779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lone_TheTraveler/pseuds/Lone_TheTraveler
Summary: Set in a supernatural-magic-type Spirit AU.Disoriented and injured after an attack by Deadlock, the wandering dragon, Hanzo, finds himself locked in an unfamiliar motel room.





	1. Dissonance

**Author's Note:**

> Well. This is my first time posting a multi-chapter Overwatch fic. I like McHanzo and I like the supernatural, so it seems only fitting this is the first work I go for, yeah?

_One._  
  
_Each breath he draws comes in slow. Far too slow. Too shallow. His lungs are heavy, his breathing thick like he's taking in water. His muscles struggle to raise his chest more than a few millimeters. It's hard to tell if he's really breathing at all._  
  
_Two._  
  
_Exhaustion blankets his body in a heavy weight. The mere thought of moving tires him. He's never felt so tired. And yet he wants nothing more than to move. He needs to move. The fire of his spirit screams for him to run, to fight. He can't, and the feeling slips from his loose grasp, leaving him empty._  
  
_Three._  
  
_Finally, something sticks. Before him, a lone figure of a green dragon. Its back is bent in the wrong direction. The brilliant emerald of its scales muddied and muted, sucking the light from their surroundings. He approaches the beast, knowing what he'll find, yet still unprepared. Blood beads on the surface of ruined scales, a striking red shimmering with the life it drains. Scaled lids open to reveal eyes as dark and smooth as melted caramel. They turn to him. Their gaze pierces through him faster than any blade. They're filled to the brim with pain, searching his soul—accusing him. All the while asking one question._  
  
_Why?_  
  
_Why?_  
  
_Why._

  


Hanzo's eyes flutter. He fills his lungs as he takes a deep breath, expanding his chest to its fullest before slowly releasing the precious air. Exhaustion permeates every fiber of his being. It holds tight to his body and drags down his mind. Everything seems slow, thick, hazy. He can hardly remember who he is.  
  
Electricity surges through him.  
  
Danger.  
  
He forces himself up with all his strength. Weakened limbs push yup only to tangle in the folds of a sheet. A sheet? He shouldn't be under a sheet, on a bed smelling of mothballs. What sort of danger would that be.  
  
In the next instant, he finds himself falling from the edge of the mattress. Tumbling limbs fail to catch him, and his back arches painfully as he lands against the unforgiving floor. The weight in his limbs drags him the rest of the way down, planting him firmly against the ground.  
  
Hanzo presses his eyes shut. Questions swarm in the darkness, moving far too fast to pin down.  
  
He steadies himself with a breath.  
  
Where is he?  
  
His eyes peek open. It appears to be some sort of a motel room. Nothing fancy. Faded drapes, a worn carpet, and a TV older than Hanzo himself tell him everything.  
  
But why?  
  
Hanzo maneuvers himself onto his stomach. Pain throbs through him in protest, urging him to stop. His heart flutters. The warning of danger races to the front of his mind. _Go_ , it insists.  
  
This time, he obeys with a note of caution. He can sense he's alone, though the tension in his chest claims otherwise. There's no need to rush and further damage his already struggling form.  
  
On trembling legs, he stands. The world sways like he's been caught in an earthquake, but he wills himself to remain upright.  
  
An image surfaces in his mind.  
  
Storm bow.  
  
The fire in his veins turns to ice. Holding his stance, his eyes flick through the dimly lit room, searching for its familiar metal curve. Or the quiver of custom made arrows. Anything. But all he finds are water stains and hovering flies.  
  
A steady breath calms the tension mounting across his shoulders.  
  
He isn't unarmed. Though he hasn't the energy to directly summon his weapon, he's undergone heavy training, he's dangerous. Even as he stands, his strength returns to him, steadying his body's trembling.  
  
Idly, he smooths back the loose hairs obstructing his vision. The action gives him pause. Usually his hair is tied back neatly off his face, leaving only part of his bangs styled in front. There shouldn't be a need to push it behind his ears. And his shirt—his head snaps down to his chest. A worn tee-shirt several sizes too big hangs from his shoulders, covering his naked form in a manner not unlike a night shirt.  
The lock on the room's only door rattles.  
  
Hanzo turns to it. Tension coils in his shoulders. The lock turns, its mechanism scraping against itself. The door swings forward.  
  
Filling the vacant door frame is a man dressed as though he's stepped straight out of an American western movie. Leather chaps hold a worn belt holstering a single revolver. A red serape broadens his shoulders only to be evened out by the falling brim of his hat. Dust curls lazily from the edges of his clothing. Its tiny fragments catch the light from the hallway, turning it golden. Where his left hand should be is a glass replacement. Beneath the transparent surface, a storm of golden sand rages on—he must be one of the local sand spirits. Slung across his chest is the thin blue string of Hanzo's bow.  
  
A jolt of energy causes Hanzo's skin to tingle. His bow. A sand spirit. The motel room. Danger. The entirety of the memory sits—inaccessible—at the edges of his mind. However it's feeling persists. _Run. Fight._  
  
The snap of the door shutting commands his attention.  
  
“Didn't expect you'd be up so fast,” the spirit says in a smooth southern drawl.  
  
The tension wound in Hanzo's body snaps. He springs forward, easily clearing the bed separating him from the spirit. With all the strength he possesses, he strikes upward, aiming for the stranger's face with the base of his palm. It connects with nothing but a flurry of dust.  
  
Hanzo turns so his back is to the wall. Before him, the ma reappears from within a cloud of dirt. His expression reads a mixture of annoyance and concern.  
  
“Now hold up,” he says, his tone even.  
  
Hanzo steps forward. Another swift strike is aimed for the holstered revolver. This time the spirit grabs his wrist, holding it so Hanzo's arm is twisted across his body. Fear constricts his heart as he's unable to pull himself free. Of course, his full strength is yet to return.  
  
The spirit holds out his free hand as if trying to pacify the agitated dragon. “If you'd just calm down, we could...”  
  
Hanzo twists his arms around, allowing him to deliver a tight pinch to the base of the spirit's neck. Instinctively, he recoils, releasing Hanzo. Free, he adjusts his stance so he has distance between his body and the spirit's. His hand moves down. Serape, bowstring, and shirt bundle in his fist. The coffee colored eyes of the spirit lock with his.  
  
…  
  
…  
  
…  
  
Nothing.  
  
A rock the size of a softball falls to the bottom of Hanzo's stomach. The mock of a dragon tattoo adorning his arm is faded to little more than a pale blue discoloration. The dragon—the mark of his spirit, his power—is gone.  
  
The sand spirit lunges forward. He pins Hanzo's arms to his sides. Leaning in his weight, he drags them both to the floor with Hanzo's smaller frame pinned beneath a leather clad knee.  
  
The spirit growls at the back of his throat. “Would ya stop struggling already?”  
  
Hanzo strains against his captor. His strength is fading, what little there was easily expended in the brief fight. When he speaks, his voice is much thinner than he likes. “Do not expect me to come quietly as your captive.”  
  
The spirit recoils as though he's been struck. “The hell are you talkin' about? I'm the one who saved you.”


	2. Deadlock's Doing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind comments! I'm especially happy to see the enthusiasm for McCree since I was a little unsure how he'd be received, writing him as a sand spirit.
> 
> Speaking of sand spirits, McCree and the others are called dust devils.

_The spirit recoils as though he's been struck. “The hell are you talkin' about? I'm the one who saved you.”_  
  
  
\-------------------------------------  
  
McCree holds his breath. He's afraid if he moves too suddenly, he'll spook the injured man pinned down under his knee. He's not sure how many fights the poor guy has in him before he gives out all together, and it doesn't hurt to be too careful.  
  
The man glares back at him with wary eyes. Deciding—likely—if McCree is someone he can trust. Not that the cowboy can blame him. It has to be disorienting, waking up in an unfamiliar location, in unfamiliar cloths, unarmed, and faced with one of the spirits that nearly took his life.  
  
He has a sneaking suspicion the encounter is still fresh in the man's mind. If nothing else, McCree himself can't seem to get the ordeal out of his head. It plays in his mind, clear as though it's happening again.  
  
\-------------------------------------  
  
_Something's aggravated Deadlock._  
  
_The air hangs thick with static, coating the land with a power only the grouping of a dozen dust devils can achieve. They're swarmed up into a massive storm somewhere. Not that it will be hard to find them. They and McCree are cut from the same cloth; alike spirits, no matter how far McCree distances himself. Though the ability to locate the most notorious gang in the American Southwest certainly comes in handy._  
  
_A powerful tornado of dust and static has overtaken downtown, throwing tiles from roofs and scattering locals like flocks of startled birds. McCree stares on in unwavering shock._  
  
_At the peak of the tornado's funnel rages an even more impressive storm of thrashing gray clouds. Bolts of lightning rain down from its roaring maw, striking the ground with a heat great enough to melt the asphalt into tar. Entangled right where the two storms meet is a massive serpentine dragon. He hangs suspended somewhere between falling and flying. One moment his tail lashing out, driving him upward. The next, tendrils of dirt whip from the top of the tornado, tearing through his scales and dragging him down towards the storm's greedy eye._  
  
_A thunderous roar shakes the skies. The crust of the earth rattles, threatening to shatter as it up heaves McCree's steady stance. In the air, the dragon's body twists, closing in on itself. He hovers for a moment—just a moment—and falls. With a final, languid cry, the beast plummets, swallowed up in dust and sand._  
  
_Fear pins McCree's heart to the back of his chest._  
  
_Suddenly, the world goes white as a flash of blindingly bright blue sets the sky ablaze. In it's wake, an unearthly wail tears through McCree's soul. Then, when it seems the world's had enough, it silences._  
  
_McCree forces out a breath constricted in his lungs. The abrupt stillness sends a shiver across the surface of his skin before it settles on him, thick and heavy. Lingering too is a deep sorrow, as if the sky itself died._  
  
_Life flows back into McCree's limbs. He has to move. And the dragon. He can sense the beast's fight is yet to conclude. Deadlock isn't the type to let their target escape so easily._  
  
_The world around him blooms to life as he allows his human body to dissolve into dust. The flow of the wind becomes pointed. Tiny tremors beat through him as though the land itself if alive. His spirit hums in tune with both as he sweeps across the landscape._  
  
_In no time at all, he's grounded again, body crouching low atop the roof of an aging convenience store. In the parking lot below, Deadlock is circled up with its members changed from storm to human. At their center stands a fierce eyed man with a powerful spirit that burns like the sun._ The dragon.  
  
_The man flicks his wrist. A finely crafted bow of blue and silver appears in his hand. A spectral form of an arrow forms between his fingers as he draws the string back. Before he can release, a wall of wind and sand slams into him, sending him tumbling back and wrenching the bow from his grasp._  
  
_Deadlock's ringleader, Ashe, steps forward, her rifle resting confidently on her shoulder. “Not so fast there. We wouldn't want anyone gettin' hurt.”_  
The dragon grits his teeth. He recovers, keeping his body low to the ground and his fiery gaze trained squarely on Ashe.  
  
_Ashe saunters closer to her prey. At her heels, another blast of sand follows, tossing the dragon back into the ring of dust devils. Cackling, her loyal members kick the dragon back towards her, landing him at her feet._  
  
_Ashe tilts her head. “What's the matter?” She jabs the toe of her boot into the dragon's side. “Gone mute?”_  
  
_Electricity charges the air. With a bright flash, a bolt of lightning flies from the dragon's palm. The bolt strikes Ashe in the chest, sending her stumbling back several steps._  
  
_A blue-tinged wave of energy runs along the length of Ashe's body and harmlessly into the ground. With a jerk, she thrusts out her rifle. “I've had enough of you.”_  
The air ripples.  
  
_McCree leaps from the roof of the convenience store. The pound of his boots on pavement draws the attention of the gang just long enough to cause Ashe to hesitate._  
  
_He raises his glass arm up in front of his chest. His eyes narrow. A red-orange haze fills the air as time slows to a crawl. Waves of heat curl from his skin, burning through the air like a flame through paper._  
  
_Deadlock resists. At the call of their leader, they stand their ground. Yet in seconds, they crumble, driven away as their spirits begin to wither under the intensity of McCree's own._  
  
_McCree lowers his arm. With a heavy exhale, his shoulders fall. Breathing is slow and labored as he waits for the world to return to him. He's never tried targeting so many souls before, and his body punishes him for it, forcing him to stop and recover. Patiently, he waits while seconds tick by like hours until finally, exhaustion relinquishes its hold._  
  
_The dragon._  
  
_The scope of the world narrows to a sliver. The dragon is crumpled on the road, much of his clothing eaten away by a blue flame dying on the surface of his skin._  
  
_McCree's breath catches in his throat. He thought he'd missed the dragon. Yet there's no denying it. The fire of his spirit is gone._  
  
\-------------------------------------  
  
“I don't understand.”  
  
McCree's vision comes into focus as be becomes aware of the dragon's voice drifting up to him. He takes a steady breath through his nose. “When you were attacked earlier, I stopped the folks who came after you—Deadlock—and I brought you here.”  
  
The dragon tilts his head towards McCree's glass arm. “Even though you're a sand spirit?”  
  
“I don't think I'm quite gettin' your point.” McCree pulls himself from the dragon's chest. He offers up his hand to help the other man to his feet.  
  
The dragon rolls to his side, the motion drawing a weak growl from his throat. With shaking arms, he brings himself to a sitting position. “You are a like spirit to them, I would think you loyal to their endeavors.”  
  
McCree scoffs. “I'm not loyal to Deadlock anymore.”  
  
A slight furrow of the brow runs creases along the dragon's forehead. “Then who are you loyal to, spirit?”  
  
McCree leans back on his heels, a self-assured smile playing along his features. “The name's Jesse McCree, and the only man I'm loyal to is myself.”  
  
The dragon cocks his head slightly. His amber eyes flash white-blue as they meet McCree's steady gaze. “That is yet to be seen.”  
  
A short sigh escapes his lips, its sound falling dangerously close to a groan. “What's gonna convince you I'm on your side?” He removes the bow from his back. On upturned palms, he offers up the weapon as though presenting a fine meal on a platter. “I was keepin' it so you wouldn't go runnin' off without recovering first. Suppose now's a good time to give it back.”  
  
The dragon takes the bow in both hands. He fits the grip into the fingers of his left hand while the thumb of his right traces along the string. His breathing slows to a steady rhythm. The tension in his back eases. “Thank you.” He pulls his shoulders back, slipping easily into an air of superiority. “I am Hanzo Shimada.”  
  
McCree tips the brim of his hat down. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”  
  
The door creaks.  
  
McCree whips around in a thin flurry of dust. Faster than a bullet from a gun, his heart sinks to the floor.  
  
Two men dressed in black and gold leather enter the room rifles first. Their clothing letting the world know exactly who they are.  
  
Deadlock.


	3. Deadlock, Diner, and Dragon

_Two men dressed in black and gold leather enter the room rifles first. Their clothing letting the world_

_know exactly who they are._

_Deadlock._

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

 

Reflexively, McCree plants himself between Hanzo and the Deadlock lackeys. The dragon's eyes bore into the back of his head, burning with the rage of betrayal. Given how the whole situation must look, McCree really can't blame him for that sort of thinking.

“Gig's up, McCree.” The skinnier of the two men says, leveling his rifle with McCree's chest. “Hand over the dragon.”

McCree drops his hand so the tips of his fingers rest against the holster on his belt. “I won't be 'handing over' anything.”

The second man cocks his rifle, leveling it the same as the first. “C'mon Jesse,” his boots scuff against the floor as he shifts from foot to foot, “don't be a fool. With the price on this thing's head, there ain't no way Ashe'll let you get away with it alive. Turn it over now and we won't cause you any more trouble. Hell, maybe we could even convince Ashe to cut you a share of the haul, if you want.”

The air in the room shifts, growing hot and dry despite the efforts of an AC unit humming in the room's only window. McCree's face falls into an even stare, tracking each small movement from the flutter of loose hairs to the shifting of tense shoulders, waiting for a change to set off their engagement.

One of the lackey's adjusts the rifle in his hands, flexing his fingers over the stock. “C'mon McCree, we really don't want any trouble.”

“You have invited it.” The strength of Hanzo's voice takes control of the room.

Breaking his observation, McCree risks a glance at the dragon.

His shoulders are back and his chest held out proudly. The thick muscles of his arms are drawn tight as the string of his bow, holding steady a notched arrow he must have plucked from the quiver still hung over McCree's back. Eyes of dark honey stare down the three dust devils, promising them that when he releases, his arrow will find its mark. For a man dressed in nothing but a worn concert tee three sizes too big, he commands an unwavering air of confidence.

One of the lackeys chuckles, the sound cleanly cleaving the effect of the dragon's demeanor. “What're you gonna do, little dragon? No arrow's ever killed a dust devil, and I guarantee it ain't gonna start now.”

A heavy thud sounds as Hanzo's arrow pierces through the dust devil's heart. For a moment, the spirit laughs. Midway thorough his throat, the sound catches until it's strangled down to a wheeze. Angery blue marks claw their way up the bare skin of his neck. The air crackles as the spirit draws his final breath, his body exploding into a cloud of dust with the arrow clattering to the floor.

The air stills as McCree and the remaining spirit stare at the remains of their kin. McCree has heard of weapons crafted with the power to kill spirits, but to see the instant effect in person is enough to still the flame in his heart. And then, for one of the few times in his long life, he feels the weight of mortality seep into the fabric of his very soul.

A draw of Hanzo's bow breaks the silence.

The voice of the final lackey comes though low, closer to a growl than human speech, “I'll kill you for that.”

A storm of dust and rapid, cutting wind tears through the room as the spirit raises his rifle to his shoulder.

McCree pulls Peacekeeper from its holster. In a bright flash, he fires a round into the shoulder of the dust devil.

The man recoils sharply. A shaky hand presses into the open wound, drawing away coated in grainy golden blood. With a grunt, he swings his rifle around. A crack resonates off the walls.

McCree ducks. Plaster explodes above him. Through its cloud of white haze, he grabs Hanzo. The dragon growls softly, but follows McCree's hand as he pulls them both behind the edge of the bed.

Hanzo's fingers tug at the strap for the quiver slung over McCree's back. McCree hooks his hand beneath the top of the strap and waits, tapping his thumb against the thick fabric. He glances to Hanzo.

The dragon's gaze is steady, his eyes sure and focused. Though, across the exposed surfaces of his skin, dirt digs in tiny lacerations that glow a faint blue-white, reminding McCree now is not the time to be choosy with his allies. With a half-stifled sigh, he passes the quiver to its rightful owner.

McCree nabs his traveling duffle bag from where he's stashed it beneath the bed and lays it across his lap. His brow knits together and his eyes cross while his glass arm glows a dangerous red-orange. In an instant, he becomes acutely aware of the other dust devil and his control over the storm ripping the sheets from the bed and curtains from the wall. It takes a beat for McCree to find a foothold. When he does, he drives into it, forcing his consciousness into the storm in a manner that feels very nearly like swarming together. Instead of allowing his spirit to meld with the other, he tears control of the storm from the lackey's weak grasp.

“Move,” McCree grunts, hefting himself over the side of the bed as the storm grinds to a halt around them. As he runs, his glowing hand trusts forward. The storm obeys, blasting through the doorway and slamming the lackey into the wall of the hallway. Once clear of the door, he breaks out in a sprint, moving with the knowledge more of Deadlock's members could be around any corner. All the while, he can feel his energy quickly draining from the day's activities.

Behind him, a heavy thunk from an arrow signals Hanzo's following. It doesn't take long for the dragon to catch pace with him, pulling up at McCree's side with a near silent run. “I do not believe we are pursued,” Hanzo says.

McCree slows to a stop. The fabric of his serape flutters to a halt, allowing a tangible silence to settle around them. In it, he becomes acutely aware of just how deafening the wind of dust storms are. He releases a short huff to break it. “I suppose we aren't.”

After a final check around the hall, he turns his attention to Hanzo. The dragon's posture is alert, his brow creased in a scowl as his eyes dart between McCree and his surroundings. Even though he seems active, his skin is pale, taking on a sickly gray hue. At least all his cuts seem to have healed over.

McCree readjusts his duffle, the sound easily alerting Hanzo. “Do you eat?” He asks.

Hanzo's upper lip twitches, the ghost of a sneer appearing briefly before he reigns himself back to a neutral expression. “On occasion.”

“Does it do anything for you?”

The look Hanzo gives him makes McCree feel like the single biggest idiot to have ever walked the earth. “Of course.”

McCree attempts to smile back, his warmth instantly crumpled against the frigid wall of the dragon's gaze. “I reckon we've got enough time to grab a bite before Deadlock realizes their men've been gone far too long. And I ain't too sure how much farther I can push myself before needing to recharge.”

The cold in Hanzo's eyes thaws slightly as his features shift into an amused smile. “I am hardly in a state to dine anywhere.” He reaches down and tugs at where the nightshirt ends mid-thigh to emphasize his point.

McCree follows the motion of his fingers as they brush across the solid muscle of his thigh, hating how a man so cold strikes a sudden warm chord in his chest. “I'm sure there's a gift shop or somethin' we can stop by first.”

“Very well.” Hanzo rolls his shoulders back. If he's caught McCree's wandering eyes, he makes no indication. “Lead the way.”

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

 

McCree has never seen such a small man put away so much food so fast. Even knowing said man is an enormous, powerful dragon, he can’t help but stare as Hanzo picks his way through a third basket of fried fish, all the while staying perfectly neat without even a drop of malt vinegar reaching the bright orange of his new “Welcome to Route 66” sweatshirt. Every so often, the dragon pauses, tugs up the sleeve of his left arm, and runs his fingers along the smooth skin beneath. He seems better, though. Color’s returned to his cheeks, and energy to his movements.  
Hanzo pushes back his empty plate as another is set before him. With little hesitation, he launches right back to eating.  
“Enjoying the food?” McCree asks as he leans back in his seat.  
Hanzo breaks his rhythm to wipe crumbs from the edge of his lip. “It is passable.”  
McCree can’t help but chuckle. “I think that’s the nicest thing I’ve heard about this place.”  
Hanzo sneers. His eyes take on a mean glint that’s not quite aimed at McCree, but it’s damn close. “You brought me—knowingly—to a sub-par establishment?”  
“Well,” McCree pulls the edge of his serape tighter over his glass arm as the waitress swings around to check their table, “it’s not like there’s a lot of options. Besides, this place’s got variety; coffee. It’s.”  
“Passable.” Hanzo finishes, the word pointed as it leaves his lips.  
“Don’t you worry. There’s better food on down the road. Closer we get to Albuquerque, the more ‘passable’ everything gets.”  
That mean glint flares to life again in Hanzo’s eyes, this time undoubtedly directed at McCree himself. “You presume I will travel with you?”  
“I, well, I mean,” McCree trips over his own tongue. He’d assumed it, yes, of course. With Hanzo’s injuries and Deadlock still around, and. Guilt coils tightly in McCree’s gut. And with Hanzo’s whole state being his fault, it only seems fitting he should stick around until the dragon recovers. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go runin’ off on your own yet.”  
Hanzo’s voice takes on the same commanding tone he’d used just before he’d put an arrow through the heart of a dust devil. “Who do you take me for, spirit? I am more than capable of handling myself.”  
McCree’s own tone goes flat. “You mean like you ‘handled’ Deadlock?”  
Hanzo’s posture bristles so he’s sitting straight up, stiff as starched wool. “What are you implying?”  
“Look,” McCree leans his elbows on the table, “I’m not tryin’ to start a fight. I just know Deadlock’s still after you, and you’re not exactly in the best condition to fight them.”  
Hanzo draws a quick breath, and holds it as a lanky waitress slides a check onto the edge of their table. All the mean leaves his eyes, reigned in tightly in the woman’s presence. Almost the second she leaves, though, it returns. “Your concern is better spared for spirits lesser than I.”

“You sure I can't at least take you to a spirit healer? I know a real good one workin' out of Switzerland. I'm sure she wouldn't mind us dropping by.”

“No.” Hanzo says firmly. “I will handle myself.” He takes the check and tucks a handful of bills from a pocket of his quiver into its false leather sleeve.

“Alright, well.” McCree jolts upright as a wave of static rolls through the diner. From outside, the roar of motorcycles leaks through the glass of the diner's large windows, growing louder as they approach in a storm of dust.

“Looks like they've finally noticed,” McCree comments.

His remark falls on deaf ears, Hanzo already flying out of his seat, both quiver and bow strung over his back.

“Hanzo!” McCree scrambles from the booth, his long limbs tangled up by the low table. By the time he frees himself, Hanzo is already well out the door.

Air envelops him as he allows himself to dissolve to dust. Immediately, a harsh static slams into his spirit, threatening to tear his attention away from pursuing Hanzo all together. Instead, he forces his attention forward, racing along until he reforms, keeping pace alongside the dragon.

At their backs, the growl of engines draws nearer, threatening to overtake them through sound alone. Meanwhile, before them lies the wide expanse of a canyon following the snaking path of Route 66. And by the looks of it, Hanzo has no intention of stopping when he reaches the edge.

“The hell do you think you're doing?” McCree yells over the noise of the bikes and the prickling static mapped across his back.

Hanzo glances over to him, a proud smirk displayed across his face. His eyes are alight with a fire so strong, its conviction nearly convinces McCree to keep running, into the canyon's mouth. Hanzo, however, leaps cleanly from the sheer edge.

His body extends to its full length. For one, drawn out moment, he hangs in the air with bated breath. And he plummets.

Time slows as McCree becomes acutely aware of each beat of the tumultuous heart in his chest. The engines' roar dulls to a soft hum. A trail of sand drifts by in the air, left hanging over the cliff from Hanzo's jump like the wings of a butterfly beating above the abyss. He wonders—briefly—if the fire of his spirit can still burn in such an empty space.

Then. Reality snaps back. And he jumps.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, write a chapter that nearly doubles the length of the fic? It's more likely than you think. (It's a trend I usual see in my writing, each chapter getting longer until it averages out.)  
> Anyway, I want to try and keep a regular updating schedule of 1 chapter every 2 weeks. Might not be for this fic though, as I want to get a couple projects going at once so I don't get burned out on one.
> 
> Best way to know what I'm gonna be updating is to check out my twitter @OutOfPlaceKiwi


	4. Falling

Falling is such a foreign feeling.

The wind rushing past with an uncontrolled fury. His limbs hanging useless at his sides, whipped around against his will and thrown out above him, waving like the frayed edge of a tattered sail. The beating of fabric as it slaps against his skin. The press of his bow and quiver against his back as they fight to escape despite being trapped—thankfully—against the contours of his body.

Below, the ground holds still. Its wide arms—the walls of the canyon—outstretch eagerly to greet him, growing more impatient as each second races by. And when Hanzo tilts his head, he can just make out the water-carved base of the canyon, its delicate features coming into sharper and sharper focus as he draws closer. There's beauty in its form, despite his circumstance.

And for the last time, he remembers he's falling. His arms thrown back unceremoniously. Helpless. A cruel, fitting way to meet his end.

Then, the earth rises to meet him. To give it's greeting and end his descent. It envelopes around him all at once in a bath of warm dust so fine it appears like mist. It's so very warm. Warmer than the end-of-day heat lingering with the setting sun. The earth so fine, so close, and yet still he falls. Slowing, though. That much is clear.

Has he reached some odd state of terminal velocity? Or is it simply an illusion? A trick of the mind to ease his passage out of this life. Perhaps instead it's some cruel fragment of hope born from knowing that once he does reach the ground, he will not be strong enough to recover from the impact.

But no. He truly is slowing. The walls of the canyon are coming into focus with their shadows blurring less and less.

Beneath the press of his bow, a new weight presents itself. The warmth of the air has concentrated into one, solid mass supporting the whole of his person. And it spreads, making its way around his sides and against his shoulder until he's looking up at the fully formed, fully solid figure of the dust-devil-cowboy.

The edges of the spirit's silhouette are softened by trailing dust, though his creased brow, widened eyes, and tightly held shoulders are left in striking definition.

Hanzo can hardly remember the last time anyone regarded him with such concern.

“The hell were you thinkin'?” The spirit blurts in one thin breath. His words are harsh, but his tone is not. It's too high in his throat, too weak in force to be anger. This creature has risked his life to correct Hanzo's mistake, and all he appears to harbor is concern for Hanzo's well-being. Either the risk the spirit took is less than Hanzo's estimate, or he's an idiot.

“Shit!” The dust devil ducks down, clutching Hanzo to his chest to narrowly avoid a bullet that pings off the wall of the canyon.

With a jolt, he springs up, causing Hanzo to instinctively wrap his fingers in the fabric of the dust-laden serape wrapped around the spirit's shoulders.

Another gunshot sounds and Hanzo makes to wriggle from the spirit's grasp, eager to move freely again. Instead, his limbs protest, wrangled into stasis by some cocktail of subconscious fear and momentum-caused numbness from the fall. As if to compliment the bodily strike, a sob presses against his ribs from somewhere deep in his chest, tight and burning, and threatening to spill out through his eyes and mouth. It makes his eyes sting. His throat ache. It hurts and stabs and serves to remind him acutely that he's _human._ That he's stuck. That he's defenseless. That he's cut off from the capabilities of his true self, of the _dragon_ he is.

That he's trapped.

That...

The tightness in his chest ceases. It disperses back behind his lungs, settling there like stagnant water. Could such a fate be permanent? If it weren't, shouldn't he have healed by now, at least enough to change form? He's sustained many injuries before, many grave injuries, in his human, dragon, and all in-between forms, but none have left him stuck outside of his one true form. None have ever stripped him of becoming a dragon.

“Hanzo.”

Hanzo blinks slowly, his eyes seeing for the first time in how long, he's not certain. The dust devil is still looming over him, but his hair, hat, and serape are whipped around him by some haphazard wind that never quite makes it's way to Hanzo. In the backdrop, iron scrapes loudly against iron, rumbling through his chest as a train rolls by somewhere outside his periphery. Though when he tilts his head back, he can just make out the tops of old-fashioned style boxcars sailing along at speeds far too slow to be anything but a very large, very long freight train.

“We need to jump.” The spirit says, his voice nearly drowned in the sea of locomotion.

Hanzo tilts his head back to the spirit. Jump? On a moving train? Hanzo himself has done it, but that was when he could fly. When there was no concern of death. When a misstep would be little more than an inconvenience. Meanwhile, the sand spirit could likely slip on easily while his person consists of little more than dirt and air.

“If I put you down, can you make it?” The spirit stifles a harsh flinch ass a bullet grazes the collar of his shirt.

Hanzo balls the edge of the red serape in his hands, using the point as an anchor to lift himself to his feet. “Yes.”

“Alright.” The spirit lowers Hanzo's feet to the ground while one hand hovers at his shoulder, ready to steady him if the need arises. “Go on. I'll follow.”

Hanzo's knees can barely support his weight. They feel unsteady, and once again, he has to force his body to hold him upright. This time, it obeys.

Mechanically, he moves towards the train, taking long strides that do little to put distance between himself and the dust devil. His feet nearly leave the ground when he jerks to a stop. It's hit him this could very well be an elaborate trap. That this dust devil and the others could be in collaboration to deliver Hanzo to whomever was dishing out his—apparently—hefty bounty.

Has the certainty of healing truly let his guard fall so far?

A strong arm loops around his waist, yanking him into the air. He hangs for a moment at the peak of an ark. Flying briefly, body suspended, rattling, humming with the power of the train thundering along beneath him.

All of it slamming to a stop.

His shoulder collides with wood flooring rubbed smooth from wear. In the next instant, he finds himself lying on his back in darkness as the car of the train is swallowed by a tunnel carved into the side of the canyon.

If this all proves a trap, he's now effectively ensnared.

“You still with me?” The darkness breaks apart as a soft yellow glow fills the interior of the boxcar. In the light, Hanzo can make out the dust devil crouched down on his knees, glass arm draped over his lap and glowing just enough to illuminate his face in soft-edged shadows. The concern has edged off his face into a pinched attempt at an easy smile.

Hanzo rights himself. “I am.” He rolls his shoulders to loosen them as he draws his legs elegantly beneath him.

The spirit lets his shoulders relax. “Good.” He tugs his serape loose, peeling it from his neck with a barely audible hiss. Its fabric falls across his hands, flowing away from him until he holds up a segment sporting a rough, circular hole soaked in a grainy, viscous fluid Hanzo can only guess is the spirit's blood. With a shake of his head, the spirit balls up the garment and tucks it against his side.

Hanzo himself remains perfectly still, analyzing the spirit. Would Deadlock really go so far as to injure one of their own in order to obtain a large bounty? However if this _McCree_ is a mere grunt, it won't matter. Though it would be strange to assign a grunt with the entire task of misleading Hanzo. It would be something Hanzo would have assigned to the lowest levels of his former clan. Perhaps the bullet simply doesn't hurt. The nameless dust devil from the hotel room had boasted of how a mere arrow could not kill them, thus it isn't beyond the realm of reason that bullets do the same. But Jesse McCree had bolted at the encounter, clearly eager to escape. Injury has to do something. Even now, the spirit's breathing has gained an ever so slight hitch, suggesting his wound causes some sort of significant pain.

“What's that look for?” The spirit has his head tilted to accommodate a hand pressed over the muscles of his collar. One brow is cocked, artfully offsetting the tilt of his head.

Hanzo allows his own brow to set into a light frown. “I am not attempting 'a look'.”

The dust devil gives a half-lipped smile. “Aren't ya?” He winces as he flexes his shoulder. “You look like you're tryin' to find somethin' you don't like.”

Hanzo snorts. With a roll of his shoulders, he lowers his head to focus on where his hands rest atop his knees.

Silence falls quickly. Something not unwelcome, but undercut with the notion there's something unaddressed. Several times, Hanzo feels compelled to end it, generating several starters to subtly glean a better understanding of the dust devil's motives, but each die before they can rise to his lips.

The spirit curls in on himself, leaning as if to protect his core. “So,” he stretches and flexes one arm, “we should be outta this tunnel soon. Give us a chance to get off this train. This line'll go all the way out to Santa Fe, but it'll cause trouble if we're still here by the time it hits Albuquerque. End of the tunnle'll put us a good distance to walk to the main road, maybe all the way to the suburbs 'for we can get a ride to the city center. That'll put us ahead of Deadlock and give you plenty of options to be on your way.”

Hanzo's spine goes rigid as a notion seizes him. “Take me to your spirit healer.”

“Pardon?”

Hanzo's mind works to get ahead of his mouth. If he truly isn't in a state to heal himself, he's not ready to leave the company of the dust devil. Or rather, he's suddenly in dire need of a healer. He hasn't been to one since he left Shimada castle, but he's aware that born healers could repair just about any damage an unfortunate spirit might accumulate. The ordeal will also serve as a good test to see how loyal the spirit is to Deadlock. To see if his words from the diner hold water. “Take me to the spirit healer you spoke of when we ate.”

The spirit's brows raise in shock while the rest of him eases into...relief? Before Hanzo has a chance to analyze the response, light flares through the car, signaling the trains exodus into the outside world. And by the time Hanzo's vision adjusts, the spirit's face has settled into a faint smile. “Sure,” the spirit says, “I can take you. It'll take a while to get to her place in Switzerland, but once we're there, I can get us to Angie right quick.”

The floor creaks as Hanzo moves to watch the landscape go by. It's very much the same as the last location—Deadlock Gorge—but the large expanse of flat earth lends way for the foliage to grow more densely. Though given the persisting sparsity, it's hardly saying much.

“How long will we travel?”

The dust devil shrugs. “Four days at the most if we move steady. I can book our flights tonight, assuming they still got seats at such short notice. 'S not like Thursday's a busy day for...eh I'm sure we'll find somethin'.”

“I will arrange our flight.” Hanzo offers, suddenly longing for some control over his situation. Besides, it will not benefit him to become monetarily indebted to this spirit.

The dust devil pauses midway through re-wrapping his serape. “That's mighty kind of you, but I gotta respectfully decline. Consider it a courtesy for all the trouble I've put you through.”

Hanzo has to turn himself away to mask the harsh sneer that jumps to his features. Inconvenience him? The dust devil is either particularly cruel or blissfully naive. If he truly did save Hanzo, then he should be the one at an inconvenience. And if he is an accomplice of Deadlock's attack, then his 'inconvenience' or upholding his ruse is bordering the comedic. Either way, it is best to play along with the spirit's given narrative. “It is unnecessary. I will arrange flights as repayment for my rescue. It would be an honor.”

“Y'already did that at the diner.” The leather of the spirit's boots scrape roughly on the car floor. “So I gotta insist I pay. Besides, I already got a connection for making flights. It'll make things a hell'uv a lot easier in the long run if we move discretely between countries.”

Hanzo's resolve caves as he senses the spirit pull up at his side.

This is far from an optimal condition, but he sees few options if the spirit is genuine. Even if he's not, there's little Hanzo can do at this point. He's human, he's exhausted a great deal of his energy, and—he runs a hand through the shafts of the arrows left in his quiver—he only has six arrows left, hardly enough to fend off an attack from a group even half the size of Deadlock's swarm. If the dust devil beside him is leading him into a trap...Hanzo sucks in a breath. At this point, he's really too far trapped for that sort of thinking to matter.

Regardless, he has to work to keep the majority of his distaste from entering his voice. “Very well.”

“Glad that's settled,” the dust devil says, a note of relief prominent in his tone. “Now how are you for jumpin' _off_ trains? I'm not gonna have t'grab you again, am I?”

Hanzo's nose wrinkles in exchange for a scoff that very nearly slips from between his clenched teeth. Instead he further sets his jaw, silencing any grievances he may wish to voice.

With a graceful leap, he jumps from the car of the train, rolling when his feet his the ground in order to halt his momentum.

Beside him, a gentle flurry of dust signals the dust devil's arrival. From the corner of his eye, Hanzo can just catch the spirit reforming into his robust cowboy-self.

“Pretty light on you feet, aren't ya?”

Hanzo narrows his eyes at the compliment. The quality of his landing is arbitrary. “When do you expect we will reach the city?”

The spirit's jaw works subtly for a moment as though considering something before his shoulders droop and he provides simply: “Just a couple hours. I don' think it's wise to go in right away. Best we circle away from the tracks, set up camp for the night, and head in soon as the sun's up. It'll be harder for Deadlock to find us if we don't go in first.”

“Do not-” Hanzo swiftly catches his tongue. It would be inappropriate to assume dust devils have some sort of connection to the land, or to each other that would allow Deadlock to easily locate the lone spirit. “Do not concern yourself with their pursuit. If they do, they will meet untimely ends by my hand.”

The dust devil tugs his serape tighter around his shoulders. “Let's just try not to get caught up in any more fights we end up runin' from.”

Hanzo hums his displeasure at the back of his throat. “Very well.”

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

 

It's nearly an hour before the dust devil decides they've been walking long enough to avoid detection. The whole walk, the spirit is uncharacteristically quiet. His back is held stiff, arms hardly swaying at his sides. The glass fingers of his artificial hand twitch ever so slightly, the motion giving Hanzo the same impression as when he idly thumbs his own tattoo. Perhaps he should take it as a sign the spirit is weakening, or that he's impatient. Perhaps it's a tell he's waiting for the rest of his kind to catch up with them and-

Hanzo squeezes his eyes shut and inhales slow and deep. The likelihood this dust devil, this _McCree,_ is working with the other spirits is becoming less likely with each passing second. Theoretically saving his life twice now, especially...

Memory flits back to Hanzo clearly for the first time since he awoke. A ring of dust devils, each clad in black leather, surrounds him with their guns trained on his chest. A woman with bloody red eyes stares down at him like a prize. With all the confidence of a victor, she flicks her hair back with a whip of her head. That same woman who shakes off a deadly surge of electricity like it's nothing. Almost as if it hadn't happened to begin with. All that and...

From the corner of hie eye, Hanzo catches the dust devil setting down his bag. Unzipping it, the spirit produces a tightly bound bed roll. Hanzo takes the motion as an invitation to sit facing the final light of the setting sun. The tug of memory wears on his mind. He's missing something. A puzzle piece he knows the shape of, but has yet to find among a pile of similarly patterned pieces. If he just digs a little deeper, turns over a few more pieces, and really prods what he can remember of the dust devils, of their ensemble, of the tornado they crafted to meet him in the sky and drag him to earth. Focus on the heat. On the dig of individual grains of sand hurled at his tough scales and tangled in the fine hair along his face and back. Then maybe, just maybe, an answer will emerge...

The white face of the Deadlock woman reappears along Hanzo's closed eyelids. Her visage hovers for a moment before disappearing beneath a blanket of red haze that coats the air as thick as fog. It has no weight, but it's dry. Dry enough to bring lasting drought to even the wettest of rain forests. Then from the haze, a single point of golden light cuts cleanly through with a piercing intensity. Staring it down, it plows a clear path through the fog, revealing the figure of McCree, glowing glass arm raised over his chest and serape rising around his shoulders like a living, writhing creature. His eyes have sunk into his head. Their empty, bleeding red sockets latch onto Hanzo, rendering him unable to look away, even to spare a glance at the other dust devils as their bodies melt around him.

Then all too quickly, he's burning. A fire is lit beneath his skin. An inferno that dwarfs the fluttering flame of his spirit, threatening to consume him in an instant. And fear rolls over him like a powerful wave from a frigid ocean. Its cold leaves him struggling for breath with ice and fire each burning in their own rights. They blister his skin, his flesh bubbling faster than it can heal. For a fleeting moment, it seems the heat will devour the last of him when a blue flame—white and impossibly hot and bright as a bolt of lightning—blossoms from his left arm, rapidly covering him. It bites back the pain. Gives him a sweet, brief break from his agony. Too brief, as the burning returns in force, tearing him apart from within, ravaging the fiber of his spirit and-

“Y'alright?”

The touch of McCree's hand on his shoulder starts Hanzo so violently, he's on his feet with his bow drawn before he can take his next breath.

McCree holds his hands up, palms forward. His form flickers slightly, the sand hovering above his skin gravitating down to stick to him. “Easy there.” His voice is low an smooth, oddly soothing.

Hanzo's chest constricts. With each breath, he fights to reign in his trembling hands and shaking shoulders. The sun has set. There is no red fog. And the only glow is from a small lantern-like heater set up a few meters away. Most importantly, McCree's eyes are back. Back in their sockets with irises of golden brown.

“I...apologize.” Hanzo forces his shoulders to relax as he tosses his bow over his back. “I was deep in my thoughts.”

The dust devil slowly lets his hands fall to his sides. “Nah, I shouldn't've crept up on you like that. Just saw you tremblin' over here and figured I'd see if you wanted a blanket.”

Hanzo's jaw tightens. Had he really been so deep in memory that he'd forgotten himself. In the moment it seemed so real, like he'd been reliving the moment and-

His heart skips. No, he's not in danger. At least, not anymore. It's no wonder he'd awoken tripping over himself to escape. “Do not concern yourself.” He says. “I am quite well.”

McCree's brow falls slightly over his eyes before bouncing back to his usual gentle-eyed gaze. “Glad t'hear you're alright. Why dontcha come over by the heater? Desert gets mighty cold after the sun sets.”

Hanzo allows his nose to wrinkle at the suggestion. “I am not affected by cold.”

“Of course you ain't.” McCree's shoulders rise and fall in an exaggerated sigh. “At least keep yourself close. I'm turnin' in for the night. There's some survival bars and water in the pocket on the side of my duffle. Help yourself if you need it. Wake me if things go south.” He drops down beside the heater with his back propped against a large rock. With a jerk, he wraps his serape from his shoulders to cover his entire upper body and jams his hat over his eyes in a note of finality.

Hanzo moves himself to the unoccupied bedroll laid out and seats himself with his legs drawn informally to his side.

A gentle breeze tickles the back of his neck. He gives an experimental shiver. Nothing. It's not even enough to raise goose bumps along his arms. So at least he's retained his weather tolerance. If he had to crawl back and ask the cowboy how to keep warm-

He shakes his head slightly. No. He refuses to even entertain the idea. The fewer weaknesses he has to display, the better. McCree may not be his enemy, but he's not necessarily an ally. A means to an end, perhaps, but little more. And once Hanzo is able to defend himself again, it is unlikely they will remain on the same path.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slowly getting the hang of this whole 'adhering to my own set deadlines' business. This chapter's actually coming out when I wanted it too, yay!  
> Thank you all so much for reading! I'm having a great time with this concept, and it's cool to see so many folks interested as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Man, I had fun writing this chapter, and I'm looking forward to writing more. Pretty excited for it actually. Tell me what y'all think though, I love comments/feedback!


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